Chapter 4
Alexander
Icheck my watch as I wait for Camille to return. The memory of her standing in front of me, shirt soaked through, nipples visible against the thin fabric, threatens to distract me. I push it away. This is business, not pleasure, and that’s a boundary I’m not going to cross.
Michael returns to finish the tour with Camille but I tell him he’s not needed. He nods and heads back in the direction he came from.
Camille rounds the corner, steps faltering slightly when she sees me.
She’s changed into a blue blouse that brings out the color in her eyes.
It suits her. Everything about her is perfectly put together—every hair in place, her clothing adjusted just so.
I find myself wondering what it would take to unravel her.
"I apologize for the delay," she says.
I push off the wall I've been leaning against. "Ready to continue?"
She nods, clutching her tablet to her chest like a shield. I notice she does this when she's nervous—uses objects as barriers between us. It's both amusing and... intriguing.
I hired her because she's talented. That's what I tell myself.
Her portfolio showed vision that the other candidates lacked—a boldness tempered by practicality.
But I'm not immune to the other factors: her wide blue eyes, the way she chews her bottom lip when she's thinking, the flush that creeps up her neck when she gets flustered.
That disastrous interview should have been the end of it.
Any other applicant would have been dismissed without a second thought.
But when I looked deeper into her designs later that evening, I couldn't get them—or her—out of my head.
The way she recovered from each mortifying moment showed a resilience I respect.
And when she spoke about design, everything else fell away. Her passion became undeniable.
"I've been thinking about your comment on the public spaces," she says as we walk, her voice steadier now. "I'd like to propose using local materials wherever possible. Antigua has amazing artisans working with stone and wood that would bring authenticity while maintaining luxury."
"Show me," I say, stepping closer than necessary as she pulls up reference images on her tablet.
Her scent hits me—something light and spicy. I could easily lean in, brush my lips against her exposed neck. I shouldn't be thinking about her this way. She's working for me. Not to mention, she’s young enough to be my daughter.
Yet I can't help but test her boundaries, pushing her slightly off balance. It's a dangerous game, but I enjoy playing it.
"These are preliminary ideas only," she cautions, swiping through images. Her hand trembles slightly when my arm brushes hers. "I'd want to meet with local craftspeople before finalizing anything."
"I anticipated that and I've arranged for several to visit the property tomorrow." I watch her face light up, enjoying her transparent excitement. Most people I deal with hide their emotions behind polished veneers. Her expressiveness is refreshing.
"That's perfect," she breathes, making another note on her tablet.
We continue through the property, discussing her vision for each space.
I find myself watching her more than the surroundings—the way she gestures when she's excited, the thoughtful tilt of her head when considering a problem, the graceful movement of her hands as she sketches quick ideas on her tablet.
I intentionally stand close throughout the afternoon—close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat when I lean in to examine something she's drawn. It's a subtle power play, and I'm fully aware of what I'm doing.
What I don't anticipate is how her proximity affects me in return. The soft catch in her breath. The heat radiating from her skin. The way her eyes dilate slightly when they meet mine. I’ve been around beautiful women my whole life but something about this one is catching me off guard.
By late afternoon, we've covered most of the property, and I've seen enough to know my instincts about her were correct. She has exactly the skills this project needs—along with the attention to the smallest details that elevate an experience from good to extraordinary.
"I have some calls to make," I tell her as the sun begins to set. "Feel free to continue exploring.”
She nods, already making additional notes, her focus absolute.
Two hours later, I'm walking through the main building, checking on the day's progress, when I hear her voice coming from what will eventually be the resort's signature restaurant.
"No, the fixture needs to be centered exactly—see the marking?" She sounds firm but patient. "The ceiling design won't work otherwise."
I pause in the doorway, watching without announcing my presence.
She's standing beside an electrician on a ladder, pointing up at a partially installed lighting fixture.
Even from here, I can see the man isn't looking where she's pointing.
His gaze keeps dropping to her neckline, lingering too long as she talks.
Something hot and possessive flares in my chest. My jaw tightens.
"Like this?" the electrician asks, obviously deliberately misunderstanding so she'll have to explain again.
I cross the room in long strides. Camille turns at the sound of my footsteps, eyes widening slightly when she sees me.
"Mr. Kingsley," she says, straightening. "I was just discussing the placement of—"
"I heard." I move to stand directly behind her, close enough that I’m almost touching her. The electrician's eyes dart to me, then away quickly. "Is there a problem with the installation?"
My tone makes it clear I'm not simply asking about light fixtures. The man shifts uncomfortably on his ladder.
"No sir," he mumbles. "Just finalizing the placement."
"Then I suggest you focus on Ms. Montclair's instructions."
The warning is unmistakable. Camille's back stiffens, her head turning slightly as if trying to read my expression without fully facing me.
"The mark is there," she says, her voice steadier than I expected. She points again, and this time the electrician's eyes stay exactly where they should.
I place my hand lightly on her lower back—a brief, possessive touch that could be interpreted in several different ways. The electrician doesn't miss it. His eyes flick to my hand, then back to the ceiling with renewed focus.
"Perfect," I murmur, my mouth closer than it should be to Camille's ear. "Exactly as you specified."
What troubles me is how natural that protective gesture felt. How right my hand feels at the small of her back. How badly I want to slide it around her, pull her against me, and claim her.
This is dangerous—I know better than to blur these lines. But with Camille Montclair, all my carefully constructed rules seem suddenly fragile, ready to shatter at the slightest touch.
Later that night, I’m reviewing the day's reports in my suite. A tropical storm has moved in earlier than expected—nothing severe, but enough to bring winds and rain that beat against the windows in rhythmic pulses.
I've just finished a video call with the New York office when the lights flicker once, twice, then flick off completely. The backup generator should kick in within seconds, but when nothing happens, I reach for my phone's flashlight. My first thought shouldn't be of Camille, but it is.
I move through the darkened hallways, phone light casting elongated shadows across unfinished walls.
"Harrison," I call out to my head of security when I spot his flashlight beam. "Report."
"Main transformer blew, sir." His face appears ghostly in the reflected light. "Backup generator failed to engage—wiring issue, most likely. Maintenance is on it, but it could be thirty minutes."
I nod. "Staff locations?"
"Most are in the main building. Ms. Montclair was last seen in the east wing sample room."
Of course she was. Working late, probably lost in design details. The east wing is the furthest from completed, with exposed wiring and partially installed flooring. Not a safe place to navigate in complete darkness.
"I'll check on her," I say. "Update me when there's progress."
I don't wait for his acknowledgment, already turning toward the east corridor. It's a reasonable concern, I tell myself. She's unfamiliar with the property. A responsible employer would ensure her safety.
The lie tastes bitter. I want to find her because I can't stop thinking about her—about that brief touch earlier, the way she'd tensed and then softened under my hand. The slight intake of breath when I'd spoken close to her ear.
The sample room is pitch black when I reach it—no windows, no emergency lights installed yet. I pause in the doorway, listening. At first, there's nothing but the distant sound of rain. Then I hear it—the subtle shift of movement.
"Ms. Montclair?" I keep my voice low, not wanting to startle her.
A sharp intake of breath. "Mr. Kingsley? I was just trying to find my phone. I set it down somewhere..."
I move toward her voice, careful not to trip over the samples and materials I know are scattered throughout the room. My light catches on the edge of a table, then sweeps up to find her.
"Are you okay?" I ask, stepping closer.
She nods, then seems to realize I might not be able to see the gesture clearly. "Yes. Just... disoriented. I wasn't expecting everything to go so completely dark."
The beam of my phone catches on her face—the delicate sweep of her cheekbones, lips slightly parted.
Her hair has come loose from its careful arrangement, falling around her shoulders in soft waves.
She looks younger like this, more vulnerable.
Something protective and possessive tightens in my chest.
"Give me your hand," I say. "I'll guide you out."
She hesitates, just for a moment, before extending her hand into the darkness between us. When my fingers close around hers, they're warm and small against my palm.
"The flooring is uneven through here," I warn, tugging her gently closer. "Stay close."
I lead her through the darkness, one hand holding my phone for light, the other keeping firm hold of hers.
The narrow beam illuminates just enough space for us to navigate, forcing us to move slowly, carefully.
With each step, she seems to drift closer, until I can feel the heat of her body directly behind mine.
"Sorry," she murmurs when she bumps against my back as I pause to navigate around a stack of materials.
"Don't be." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
We continue in silence, the only sounds our footsteps and the distant storm. I'm acutely aware of every point of contact—her hand in mine, the occasional brush of her body against my back, the soft sound of her breathing. In the darkness, these sensations are magnified.
I pause at a particularly narrow passage, turning to face her. "We need to go single file here. I'll go first, you follow."
She nods, her face ghostly in the reflected light. I release her hand reluctantly, feeling the loss of connection immediately. The passage is tight—construction materials on one side, scaffolding on the other. I squeeze through sideways, then turn to light her way.
"Good girl. Now be careful of the pipe at knee level," I warn.
She navigates the obstacle, moving with surprising grace given the limited visibility.
I’ve turned toward her as she emerges from the passage.
Her foot catches on something unseen and she stumbles forward with a soft gasp.
Her hands instinctively reach out to catch herself—and find my chest instead.
My free arm wraps around her waist automatically, steadying her. She's pressed against me now, face tilted up, breath warm against my throat. I should step back. I should put distance between us. I do neither.
"I've got you," I murmur, my mouth close to her ear.
I feel her shudder—a full-body tremor that travels from her shoulders to where my hand clutches her back. Her fingers curl slightly, bunching the fabric of my shirt. For one suspended moment, we're frozen in this almost-embrace, breath mingling in the narrow space between us.
"I’m so sorry," she whispers.
Before I can answer—before I can give in to the overwhelming urge to close that final distance between us—the lights flicker on.
Reality crashes back. We're standing in an unfinished hallway, bodies pressed together, faces inches apart.
Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, lips slightly parted.
I've never wanted to kiss someone more in my life.
I force my arm to drop from her waist, taking a deliberate step backward. Her hands slide from my chest.
"Power's back," I say, my voice controlled despite the thunder of my pulse.
She blinks, as if waking from a dream, and nods. "Thank you. For... coming to find me."
"Of course." I straighten my shirt, an automatic gesture to regain composure. "You should get some rest. Tomorrow will be a full day."
Something flickers across her face—disappointment? Relief? I can't tell, and I don't trust myself to linger and find out. If I stay a moment longer, I'll back her against the nearest wall and find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.
"Goodnight, Ms. Montclair," I say, already turning away.
"Goodnight... ," she replies.
I walk away, each step an exercise in self-control. I've built empires, closed billion-dollar deals, faced down the most cutthroat opponents in business. None of it has required the willpower it takes to not look back at her now.
This attraction is a complication I don't need. A distraction that threatens the smooth execution of this project. A risk to my carefully maintained control.
So why is walking away so fucking hard?